


Striga Scars

by ValmureEld



Series: I Tried Not to Get Into the Witcher and Look Where That Got Me [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Gen, Graphic Injury, Hurt, Injury, Missing Scene, Prejudice, Whump, fill in, people hate witchers, striga scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 14:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13437159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValmureEld/pseuds/ValmureEld
Summary: Geralt nearly died when the Striga turned princess clawed his throat open. We know his injury, we know Nenneke's healing, but we don't know the guard that pushed past fear and prejudice and ensured Geralt lived to receive Nenneke's touch.Fill in based on the books but can also be connected with the opening cinematic for the first game. M for injury.





	Striga Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Another older fic I'm moving from my FF.net account. This one I wrote partly because it just really was begging a fill in with a cannon injury that severe, and partly because I really like playing with the concept that people hate witchers. I like seeing people's true colors around Geralt.

The guard, his name was Jethic, tasked with going into the crypt at dawn was more alert than he'd ever been in his life. The king's anxious pacing and almost fever bright eyes had spooked him into utter vigilance. The second the cock crowed a third time he was to spur his horse and make his way to the palace—no matter the potential consequences.

Needless to mention his heart was hammering and his stomach churning like he'd eaten bad pork. The rooster crowed a second time and he flinched, heart in his mouth, nervous eyes on the sky as it grew sluggishly lighter. What if the Witcher hadn't been successful? What if the Striga, invigorated by the Witcher's blood, paid less heed to the dawning sun than she had those seven years past? Or what if it was simply still too dark when the stupid bird decided to crow again and the Striga had no inhibitions at all?

Why did they have to go off a rooster's sense of time anyway? Those birds had so little brain that some of them still ran around for a while without it when being butchered for dinner. Jethic grimaced. He was thinking about butchering again. In particular he was thinking about the last Witcher that had gone up against the princess. One look at the intestines strewn across the yard told him that poor creature's fate.

The cock crowed a third time and ice slid through Jethic's veins. He swallowed, looked at the newbie they'd assigned him as backup.  _More like get away fodder_ , he thought grimly. Jethic was a seasoned guard, early into his forties. His 'partner' was barely nineteen and nervous as the mare he was sitting on. Jethic sighed, the boy's pale face betraying everything.

"Stiffen up," he commanded. "With any luck this will finally be over. Either he's killed the Striga or she's killed him. Either way the king seemed different with this Witcher. Maybe whatever the outcome will change his bull headed mind."

Rov, the novice, shook his head curtly, but seemed unwilling to speak lest he open his mouth and vomit instead.

Jethic spurred his horse and they were soon at the mouth of the palace. He dismounted and walked into the courtyard, eyes roving around looking for carnage. It was suspiciously clean. A drop of blood here, the scattered, warped links of what must have been a silver chain close to a crumbling wall, a few red hairs—but no bodies and no major organs. Not even any minor organs or limbs. His eyebrows slowly raised and he felt himself start to hope a little. Had this Witcher done it? Would he live to fight again, if not actually collect the king's reward?

Slowly, none too eager to rush into the dark, the two men made their way towards the crypt. Thankfully the low hanging position of the sun allowed the light to spill down the steps and into the tomb, making a torch unnecessary. It also made it difficult for Jethic to remain hopeful for long. As they descended the stairs he saw the vast pool of blood and his heart sank. He hadn't been successful after all. Now it was down to hoping the Striga had gone back to sleep and the Witcher's body would be easy to find, just for confirmation reasons.

A few steps more and he saw the body. The Witcher had bled out near the stairs and was now curled against the wall, his head bowed and his sword still in its sheath. Jethic felt a pang of sadness. He'd liked the Witcher. He was blunt, he was cold and professional as his peers had been, but there was an extra aura around him that was trustworthy. Jethic couldn't for the life of him guess what it had been since he knew for a fact that Geralt had butchered several men when first arriving, but he'd learned a long time ago not to question his gut about auras. He was just sad to see another man fall to the Striga's curse.

Or had he? A second body caught Jethic's eye and he rushed to it, shocked to his very core to see a filthy, fourteen year old girl with stringy red hair curled into a fetal position. The sarcophagus was still open and there was absolutely no sign of the Striga.

"The Witcher did it," Rov breathed, his eyes wide as he stopped behind Jethic's shoulder to stare. "That's the princess, isn't it?"

Jethic was so shocked he was mute, but he quickly recovered his head and scrambled to remove his cloak and drape it over the girl's naked body. A quick assessment made it easy to tell she was warm and breathing, though when he shifted her to wrap her more securely he saw the bloody nails and furrowed his brow. The Witcher had been successful, which meant that he couldn't have died more than a few minutes ago-

He whipped his head around. "Rov, go and check Geralt. He may still be breathing."

Rov blinked, tearing his eyes away from the princess to look at his commanding officer. "What?"

Jethic felt a surge of anger. "Are you deaf, stupid boy? I told you to go check the man, he may still be alive!"

That got Rov moving. Jethic focused on bundling up the princess and scooped her into his arms, moving to carry her up the stairs. He paused, staring at Rov, who was standing over the Witcher, rubbing his fingers together in a nervous tick that was really starting to piss the older guard off. "What are you waiting for?"

Rov nudged at the Witcher with his foot and looked at Jethic, his face just as pale as it had been in the face of the Striga. "My mother said—that is—the literature-"

Jethic could not believe what he was seeing. He lay the princess down and shoved the boy out of the way. "I gave you an order!" he seethed, not hesitating at all to kneel by the Witcher's body and gently pull him away from the wall and into the sunlight. He didn't pay heed to the way the blood covering the floor was soaking into his trousers, but Rov seemed fixated on it. The Witcher's head lolled without the support from the wall, and only then did Jethic see the hastily tied rags stained bloody around Geralt's throat.

The Witcher had been conscious enough to realize his throat had been torn, and had ripped his shirt to stem the flow. It couldn't have been an arterial bleed or he wouldn't have had the time. He shifted Geralt to lean against his leg. The Witcher's body was heavy and warm. If he was dead, his heart could only have stopped mere moments ago. Jethic was fiercely hoping that wasn't the case. How would it be fair for him to have come so far and then died so close after completing something nobody else had?  _Please, Melitele,_ he prayed, leaning close to the slack mouth and closing his eyes.

The Witcher gave a rasping breath and Jethic felt relief pour through him. He shifted his head, laying it against Geralt's breast and listening intently. It took a few seconds, but presently he heard the Witcher's heart give a single, sold pump. The nightmare really was over.

"Help me get him up," he said, working quickly to lace what was left of Geralt's tunic up tight, trying to preserve his heat. Rov was frozen half way up the steps, with the princess cradled against him.

"I'm sorry sir, but I can't," he said quietly, lifting the girl the rest of the way out of the pit and settling her with care on the ground.

Jethic's eyes narrowed. "This man just ended the curse and spilled his own blood to do it. He still lives, we owe him haste and care!"

"With respect," Rov said, though his voice shook "Isn't it better that two monsters die today? Rather than curing one and nursing another into health?"

The older guard couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Oh I thought you were more intelligent than that," he growled, bundling Geralt up and heaving him over his shoulders like he would any wounded soldier. He didn't care that the Witcher's blood was smeared across him or that Rov scrambled backwards as though afraid to get a disease. He carried Geralt out of the crypt and into the sunlight, laying him down again and pulling strips from his own tunic to secure the bandages more firmly. He still had to make it to the castle for help. As he tore pieces of cloth and pulled a coagulating herb from a vial in his pack he let the anger building finally pour out verbally.

"You are going to listen, boy, and you are going to listen well. I don't give a piss what kind of superstitious, prejudiced tripe you've been eating. You are going to steady Geralt's head while I bandage his throat. You are going to help me get him on the horse, and you are going to treat him with the utmost respect because he just saved all of us and your behavior makes you lower than the dirt on his boot."

Rov's face was coloring and he looked up from where he'd been attending to the princess, wiping blood and dirt from her face. "He's not human!" he exploded. "That mutated thing was only able to defeat the Striga because he is stronger and faster than she. What would we do if he decided, if any of his kind decided they were done with humans!?" He spat. "Filthy, monstrous rot, all of them. Heartless animals driven by the lust for coin. Small mercy from the gods that they're neutered, or else who knows what kind of abominations could be born from them stalking our women."

Jethic's face darkened and he pulled the bandages tenderly from Geralt's throat, working quickly to smooth the salve across the horribly torn edges of the wound. His larynx was exposed and so were several powerful tendons, not severed but gouged horribly. He was lucky to be unconscious, luckier still that the tear hadn't delved any deeper and severed an artery. Very gently, he tilted Geralt's head forward to help close the wound and then re-bound it with the relatively clean strips of cloth. When he was certain the bandage would hold and he had another moment to spare, he lay Geralt's head against his wadded up jacket to keep it tilted forward and remove strain on the injury. Then he got up, went straight to Rov, seized him by the tunic, and threw him against the wall, holding him there.

"That  _man_  saved your scrawny, pox ridden carcass," he hissed, shaking the younger soldier. "I didn't see him look at any of the women at court twice but I've caught you plenty of times with your tongue hanging out and your hand down your trousers, so  _don't you dare_  act like you are better than him."

He fisted his hand tight in Rov's tunic, pinning him with a forearm and all of his weight so he couldn't struggle away. He shoved his free hand, covered in the Witcher's blood, under Rov's nose. "Take a deep breath, smell that. That's his blood. That's  _human blood._  Blood that moments ago flowed through the heart you claim he doesn't have. The very same one I heard beat, and it was a great deal nobler than your shriveled, coward's heart." He gave Rov a shake, but his fury hadn't spent itself out yet. "Don't you make that face, like I'm infecting you with him. I promise you his blood is a right bit cleaner than the mud flowing through your veins. You should worry more about the diseases your fisstek friends at the brothel carry."

He shoved Rov hard, knocking his head against the wall hard enough to leave a lump and then let go, watching with some satisfaction as he slid to the ground. "Carry the princess, try not to let the king see you ogling her, or you'll be hanged for certain," he sneered. "Meanwhile I'll take the mutant you're so morally scandalized to touch and make sure his room in the  _palace_  is comfortable and that his gear is repaired."

He hefted Geralt up again, carrying him as gently as he could over to his horse and laying him across. The horse had been trained to lay down to accept wounded riders, and Jethic made sure Geralt was steady before having the mare rise. He climbed up and secured an arm around Geralt's waist, letting his head rest against his shoulder. "He will wake up with the best healers tending to him, a three thousand oren purse, and the undying gratitude and favor of your king," he spat. "Try to remember that before you open your ignorant mouth again."

He gave the mare a command and sped towards the castle, ensuring Rov was close behind only for the princess' sake. When they reached the castle he let Rov handle getting the princess inside, determined to watch over the Witcher until he was in safe hands. He'd known Rov was a whoreson but he hadn't realized how far his prejudice went. Many people did not like Witchers. Their yellow eyes and uncanny abilities unnerved people, but to go as far as to let him die—Jethic shook his head, riding into the healer's quarters and dismounting, quickly telling the physicians what happened. He made sure it was very clear that the Witcher was in the king's highest favor, just in case someone else decided his life wasn't worth protecting.

Only when he was certain Geralt was in good hands did he go and brief the king. The princess was similarly carted away, and knowing that Geralt would have no one at his side he decided to go back and check on him. He entered the Witcher's room quietly and reverently, gratified to see that he'd been bathed, bandaged securely, and placed in a clean bed. The faint scent of pain numbing herbs suffused the air and Jethic felt a streak of pride. Those were expensive and rare, and only the higher ranking officers and royalty were allowed such a rich poultice. Especially if unconscious. He sat next to the bed and laced his fingers together.

"You probably can't hear me and that's fine, but I wanted to thank you. That nightmare went on long enough and you risked a great deal to end it. Without bloodshed—save your own. That commands my highest respect. I respected your guild anyway, not that my opinion matters. Your profession demands much and pays little but we need you. We need more of you, if I'm being honest, but I'm grateful for the few we have. I don't know how close you are to the others in your profession but I am sorry about the other Witcher she claimed." Jethic sat back with a weary sigh, staring at his hands. "I doubt you heard Rov but I'm sorry about him too," he said quietly. "He's an empty headed fool and being able to read has only made it worse. Unfortunately it seems many folk are like that, but we're not all bad."

He cleared his throat, moving to get up and holding his helmet in his hands out of respect. "I wish you a rapid recovery and good fortune, wherever the road takes you next. And if you return to the area and need lodging, I live on the south side of the wall. My wife would be happy to have your company. She feared for our children because of that Striga, and now we can welcome our new baby without fear. You protected a family you never even met, and I'll always be in your debt. Just," he sighed and put his helmet back on. "Just wanted you to know."

When he looked up one of the Witcher's golden eyes was open, and he was looking at him. The split pupil was narrow in the light of the room and the pale tint of his skin did give him an otherworldly appearance but Jethic didn't feel any revulsion. Geralt looked at him for a long moment before sighing heavily and letting his eye fall shut again. It was plain he hadn't really been conscious. Still, Jethic felt that if the Witcher ever did meet him again, he might at least by instinct know he was a friend.

"Rapid recovery and a long life to you sir," Jethic said, smiling. He closed the door securely behind him.


End file.
